by Laurel Dewey
Betty was amazed. “You don’t use marijuana but you’re still open to it?”
“Hell, Betty, I hate rap music but I’m not going to ban it. I happen to believe in personal freedom. I know that’s a revolutionary stance these days, but you might want to look into it. Look, Betty, when you stop buying into all the manufactured hysteria about pot – and basically all of it is manufactured – you’re going to come out the other side and realize there are good and bad people involved in the business, just like the health food industry.”
She seriously considered his words. “Well, if I do this, understand it’s purely for the medicinal aspects. Pain reduction. Nausea. Muscle cramps.”
He looked at her with a soft smile. “It’s okay if in the midst of pain relief, euphoria happens to creep in. I remember when I smoked pot, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Who’s to say that laughing your ass off is not ‘medicinal?’ I happen to think a big part of healing is allowing yourself to actually enjoy life.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But there I go again. Radical ideas.”
Betty grinned. “So…you think I should do this?”
He tilted his head. “You’re ‘shoulding’ all over yourself again. It’s your gig or it isn’t. You want me to tell you what to do and I won’t. You’re the one who’s going to be taking care of the plants and being a caregiver. You have a good head on your shoulders. Use it. Make a decision. It doesn’t matter what I think or what anyone else thinks.”
What a shockingly, enlightened reply, she thought. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Nobody…nobody has ever said that to me before.” And then that shudder started again; that electrified quivering in her stomach that made her feel quite sick and slightly disoriented. She stared straight ahead waiting for the jitters to stop, but they didn’t.
“Are you okay, Betty?”
She was about to speak when she heard the next-door neighbor’s young daughter walk outside and start tossing a ball against the fence. “I think we should go inside.” She got up quickly and turned back to him. “You coming?” she said quietly.
“You afraid the kid’s going to see me and…what?”
Betty felt embarrassed. “No, no, no, it’s not that…uh…it’s just…” She snuck a look next door. “People see me a certain way and –”
“Finding a biker guy with a ponytail sitting in your backyard at seven in the morning isn’t the norm?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Something like that.” Her tone was semi-formal.
He followed Betty back into the house and through the kitchen, which still smelled like Ganja Central. Jeff observed the living room while Betty went about opening more windows to air out the house. Ronald sauntered next to Jeff, brushing up against his jeans.
“Who’s this?” he asked, gently lifting up Ronald and petting him.
“That’s Ronald.”
“Why Ronald?”
“He’s named after Ronald Reagan. He’s actually Ronald the third. Ronald the first and second are,” she put her hand to her mouth in a clandestine manner, “buried in the backyard.”
“I bet you think Ronald’s a Republican too. He’s not. He’s an Independent. All cats are Independents. So why do you name every cat Ronald?”
“Consistency. They’re all black and white too. Frank always said that consistency was important in life. Structure was essential. Chaos breeds confusion and unexpected consequences.”
Jeff scratched Ronald’s chin. “Sounds like ol’ Frank was a bucket full of fun.” He set Ronald down on the carpet and took a gander around the living room. “Maybe that explains the vibe in this room. It’s like a Catholic Church without the frivolity. Or a tomb without the bad lighting.”
Betty opened the last window and turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“This place is holding its breath.” He let out a few long breaths.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get the house to loosen up a bit so it can teach the occupant a few things. I’m surprised you don’t have plastic runners to protect the aging carpet.”
“I do,” Betty replied quickly. “But they’re at the cleaners,” she said, joking.
“Ah, you see? Underneath all that conventional skin is a whole different person.”
She stared at him, somewhat shaken by his comment. “I think I know that now,” she softly said. Betty couldn’t believe she was admitting this to someone she hardly knew. The realization was still so new and unformed in her mind. “But I’m not sure I know who that person is.” She felt a lump forming in her throat. “And it’s too late in life to realize this. To think I’ve wasted so much time pretending and going along with other’s plans that I never felt…fit.” She did everything possible to hold her emotions at bay. “I’m too old not to know who I really am.”
Jeff shook his head. “Would you rather wait and be five minutes from death to figure this out? You’re not bedridden, Betty. You’re not feeble or mentally incompetent. You could have at least another twenty-five or thirty good years ahead of you if you wanted it. Stop worrying about what other people think. I’ve never let someone’s expectations of who they thought I should be get in the way of who I really am.”
“How did you know who you really are?”
“I always listen to my heart, never my head. The heart doesn’t lie.”
She considered the comment. “But how do you know if it’s really your heart talking. Maybe it’s your head talking and you think it’s the heart. Or maybe it’s all complete nonsense? Or maybe you’re lying to yourself –”
“Spoken like someone who still thinks from her head.” He checked the time. “I have to go open the store.”
Betty stood across the dining room table from him, suddenly feeling a sense of loss. “Oh?” She pulled herself together. “Yes, yes. Of course, you do.”
Jeff headed to the front door and then turned in a contemplative manner. “There was a old woman who lived on our street when I was nine. We called her Aunt Mimi. She had been confined to her bed as long as I’d ever known her. One day her husband decided to move her bed to the front living-room window so she could see outside. Each day as we walked to school in the morning and came back in the afternoon, we’d go by her front window and Aunt Mimi would wave to us. That went on for years, until I was probably thirteen. And then one afternoon, we walked by that window and she was gone. I figured the worst, so I went up to the front door and rang the bell and damned if Aunt Mimi didn’t answer the door. She was standing upright, her hair in a little neat bun and dressed quite nicely. I was stunned. I said, ‘Aunt Mimi, what happened? How come you finally got out of bed after all these years?’ And she said, ‘It was time.’” He smiled. “It’s time, Betty.”
Jeff left as Betty peered outside the front window. He got onto his motorcycle, and drove away. She wondered if anyone in the neighborhood was watching. But that other part of her hoped they were.
~~~
She took a two-hour nap – probably the deepest sleep Betty had in years – and was awakened when the phone rang. Checking the Caller ID, she saw it was Judi and answered the phone.
“What in hell happened last night?” Judi asked, her voice slightly edgy.
Betty felt her stomach drop. “What do you mean?”
“I got a call from Tom Reed. He said you were very…how should I say this…rude. That’s not like you, Betty. Is everything all right?
God, she wanted to scream. She wanted to tell her everything. But how? How in the hell do you tell someone you’re not the same anymore?
“Oh, hell, Betty. It’s Peggy, isn’t it? Of course, it is. Her memorial service is tomorrow, and I know how those things affect you.”
This was the first time Betty heard that Peggy was even having a service. “I was under the impression from some comments she’d made a while ago that she didn’t want a service –”
“People say a lot of things when they’re sick. She has to have a service. It’s the right thin
g to do. It’s at 10:00 am at the church on Fourth Street. I’ll see you there and we will talk.”
And that was that. The conversation was over. Betty sat there for several minutes as her blood slowly boiled. She tore into the kitchen, reheated her two cannabis oil concoctions to re-melt the oils, and then carefully strained them through a piece of cheesecloth into a large bowl. Once completed, she transferred them into her freezer to allow the water and oil to separate. She stood there, arms crossed, and stared at the closed door on the freezer for what seemed like an eternity. A furnace of indignation fired up her resolve, and she picked up the telephone, dialing Peyton’s cell number.
He answered, and Betty heard the sound of reggae music playing loudly in the background. Apparently he was working the first shift at the grow store. “I’m doing this, Peyton,” she declared.
“Awesome!”
Even though she was alone, she spoke confidentially into the phone. “I tried a tablespoon of the oil…quite by accident, of course.”
“A tablespoon?” he softly chuckled. “Wow. Did you surrender to the stone?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you allow it to take you where your body and mind needed to go?”
Betty reflected on his question. “I don’t think I had much of a choice, to be honest. One does have to…” she hesitated, realizing what she was about to say, “let go…and not be afraid when it hits.”
“I read once that cannabis can act as ‘training wheels’ for meditation. It helps you become more receptive.”
She cogitated on his statement. “Training wheels…I like that.”
“Dude, I’m proud of you. Four days ago, could you ever have imagined all of this would happen?”
“You have no idea, Peyton. I hope I can find the right patients with your help.”
“No worries. It’s like Field of Dreams. If you make the chocolates, they will come.”
She swallowed hard, realizing she was about to walk into a strange new world. “I need to get my card. Do you know of a doctor I can go to?”
“Absolutely! Dr. Jan. She rocks.”
Don’t these people have last names anymore, she wondered? “Where is her office?”
“She works out of different locations. But primarily, she’s got a van.”
“A van? Dr. Jan has a van?”
“Yeah. We call it the Canna Van.”
Betty took a hard breath. “She’s a real doctor, right?”
“Oh, yeah. I saw her degree…in a frame.”
“A frame? Well, that certainly makes it authentic.”
“Hang on a sec. I have her schedule on a piece of paper in my wallet.” He recovered the information and came back on the phone. “Dr. Jan’s gonna be at Irving and Cooper all day today. If you want me to, I can give her a call and see about getting you in today. It helps to have a referral, you know?”
Betty agreed. Half an hour later, he called back and told her she scored an appointment at the odd time of 4:20.
“That’s another excellent sign, Betty!” he raved. “This is all meant to be! I’m tellin’ you Betty, you get your card and I’ll help you get set up with everything you need. Between your chocolates and your green thumb, you’re gonna be the toke of the town!”
Chapter 13
“I have a 4:20 appointment with Dr. Jan.”
Betty parked two blocks from Irving and Cooper at 4:00 on the dot. There was no way she was going to park her Taurus too close to Dr. Jan’s traveling van and risk being seen. She had a difficult time figuring out what to wear to her visit, as suitable attire for such an appointment wasn’t established yet. So Betty donned a floral summer dress with sleeves of an appropriate length and carried her favorite sweater with the unraveling sleeve tucked under just in case the Colorado weather took a turn for the worse. Her formal taupe heels clicked brightly against the pavement as she walked the short distance.
It wasn’t tough to locate Dr. Jan’s van. It was clean, sparkling white and painted with a huge cannabis leaf, a green cross and an “Rx” on both sides. At first glance, it didn’t look like any place where “medicine” would be practiced. In fact, cut a window in the side and replace the marijuana leaf with a popsicle and it could be an ice cream van. Outside the vehicle, a dark-haired woman in her early forties sat on a folding chair, organizing multiple manila folders on her lap. Between her teeth, she clenched a pen and muttered indecipherable words.
“Hello,” Betty said, greeting the woman. “I’m Betty Craven. I have a 4:20 appointment with Dr. Jan.”
The woman looked up and chuckled. “I bet you do. You come from church?”
“What?”
“A wedding?”
Betty glanced down at her dress. “No. This outfit is certainly not appropriate for church or a wedding.”
The woman regarded Betty with some apprehension. “Look, if you’re with the Feds, we’ve got our paperwork all in order. I don’t want any hassles.”
After several minutes, in which Betty explained in great detail who she was and why she was there, the woman interrupted her.
“Okay, okay! I get it! Pull up a chair.” She motioned to a canvas, folding chair that leaned against the van. “I need your driver’s license to get started.”
Betty sat down. “Who exactly are you?”
“I’m Jan’s nurse, slash assistant, slash notary, slash mediator. You can call me Pam.” She proceeded to jot down Betty’s information on a sheet of paper.
“I’m new to all this, Pam” Betty meekly offered.
“No shit?” she said with a sarcastic, droll tenor. Pam filled out part of the page and then handed it to Betty, along with her license. She instructed Betty to continue filling out the form and then gave her three more pages filled with every known disease and malady. “Check off every problem you have,” she instructed her.
Betty began filling out the form. By page two, she’d already checked off sixteen boxes. Yes, there was even a box for ear problems. But she wanted to be precise, so she told Pam that it wasn’t always “pain” but more of a “disagreeable flutter.” Pam regarded her with a look that’s usually reserved for baristas dealing with difficult patrons, who order complex cappuccinos with a whisper of froth and soy milk at Starbucks.
“Check the box, Betty,” Pam advised. “We’re not splittin’ the atom here, okay?”
Betty continued to fill out the form and then handed it to Pam. By that time, Pam had already finished all the important paperwork Betty would need when she sat down with Dr. Jan. She then began to explain the somewhat involved process of how she would notarize the official form, and that Betty could only use a blue ink pen on the form. When Betty asked why it had to be blue ink, Pam didn’t have a clue but stressed that if it wasn’t completed in blue ink, the form would be returned. The intricate process continued. Pam stressed, with great fervor, the importance of including a personal check, not a money order for the ninety dollar fee to the state. She also explained the need to mail the completed forms by “Certified Mail with Return Receipt Requested” as proof of delivery, as well as a few other vital steps to make sure the Colorado Department of Health didn’t return the documents because of a failure to follow their complex protocol. It was obvious to Betty that Pam had repeated this process far too many times, as indicated by the singsong and somewhat irritated nature of her voice.
“Excuse me,” Betty said, after closely listening to Pam, “but shouldn’t we be discussing all this after I am approved for a card?”
Pam regarded Betty with that same tired look. “Honey, you’re over fifty and you’ve checked more than thirty squares. You’ve got at least one of the qualifying medical conditions. The only thing barring you from getting a card is pissing off Dr. Jan.” Pam glanced down to the first page. “Hey, right here where it says, ‘Describe the intensity of your neck spasm pain,’ you checked off ‘mild.’ Are you sure it’s mild?”
“No. Sometimes it’s quite debilitating and I can’t move. It even froze up last –
”
“Then why did you check ‘mild’?”
Betty’s back stiffened. “Because I don’t want to appear like I’m an invalid. Plus, I don’t think it’s right to characterize something as ‘severe’ when it can be moderate.”
Pam put down her files and stared at Betty. Just stared at her.
After a long thirty seconds, Betty spoke up. “Is there a problem?”
“You’re not the typical patient who visits Dr. Jan. Let me be clear. Colorado requires certain wording accompany specific problems. When Dr. Jan asks you to describe your neck pain, you might want to tag it as sometimes severe. You hearin’ me?”
Betty nodded. “Yes. Severe. Gotcha.”
“Hey, you didn’t fill out what you do for a living.”
“Oh, I guess I’m retired.”
“What did you do?”
She considered the question. “Well, I raised my son and…then…I gardened…and cooked…and, um –”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture.”
Betty realized how vacuous she sounded. “I owned a gourmet chocolate store for a while. High-end cacao. Not pedestrian offerings. Specialties, you know?”
The look of bemusement on Pam’s face was classic. “But you don’t have that store anymore, do you?”
“No. The economic downturn took care of that.”
“Wow. Imagine that. You’d think even with a depression where people are losing their homes and cars and jobs, they’d still want to fork out ten bucks for a dot-sized chocolate. We call that poor planning where I come from.”
Betty slightly stiffened. “Well, now hang on. I thought I was contributing in my own little way and providing people with something beautiful they would appreciate, and they’d feel good about themselves when they ate my chocolates.”
Pam sat back with a mystified expression. “Damn, honey. You really believe that, don’t cha?”
“Yes. I do. What’s wrong with giving someone something beautiful they can look forward to every day? For that short moment in time, they feel happy and special and everything’s perfect. Just because we live in a chaotic world, doesn’t mean you have to throw out all the beauty. For some people, those moments are what keep them going.” Betty had never been so forthright with any stranger. She had no idea where this candor was coming from, but she didn’t regret a word of it.